Chapter 45 A Most Foul Wytch #2
“How? My wyfe’s schemes are formidable. As are her talents. I expected your firedrake to grovel at her feet like that disgusting ferretworm.”
His tone was distrustful and angry. But Wickham had aspired to be bound gentry his entire life and achieved his goal by marrying Lydia. Something had gone wrong.
“Your wyfe’s talents are less impressive than you think,” I said.
“That does not explain why she cursed you. Why she ranted about sister Lizzy’s ‘draca tricks.’ ” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“Listen, dear Elizabeth. You have stumbled into the war. Tomorrow, I am bound for France, so I do not care what you see or say. But there are men here who would cut your throat in a heartbeat, and others who would do worse. If you live out the day, it will be thanks to me. And I may require payment before the day is done.”
“You disgust me,” I said.
“You misunderstand my terms. I shall explain later. First, it is time to visit my wyfe.”
He grabbed my arm and hauled me through the manor.
On my first trip, I had been stunned and disbelieving.
Now, I was terrified but angry and alert.
I counted the men we passed in the house: nine.
I listened. Those in uniforms gave nods to Wickham and spoke English, although of the lowest class.
Those without uniforms stayed apart, ignored us, and I caught a few words of fluent French.
A barouche with the Darcy crest waited in front, incorrectly harnessed with a single pair of horses. The driver was an obese, grimy man bulging from an army uniform much too small. He eyed me. “Who’s this crumpet, then?”
“Keep your bloody eyes to yourself,” Wickham snapped. He pushed me into the back and sat beside me. The driver snapped the reins. We started down beside the coursing stream.
Maybe a na?ve question would encourage explanations. “Are these your militia soldiers?”
Wickham’s lip twisted. “The militia are gentry fools who pay for the privilege of bad food and parading in circles. I have my own force. Men with good reason to hate the army, nothing to lose, and much to gain. We are privateers, Elizabeth, but on land. Acting with an Emperor’s letter of marque.
” He barked a laugh. “You should call me daring Captain Wickham.”
I did not know how much I believed, but only one man was called emperor. Napoleon Bonaparte.
Ahead, activity had erupted on the lakeshore.
At least two dozen armed men in laborer’s clothes were milling around a large wagon.
Some were erecting three modest-sized canvas tents, each about six feet square.
Four others were lugging a small wooden chest to the edge of the water.
The chest, not much bigger than a hatbox, was suspended on poles like a sedan chair, one straining man holding each corner.
Farther ahead, two carts filled with men dressed as English militia were climbing the road to town.
We stopped near the wagon. Wickham jumped down, then with exaggerated civility, offered his hand. I took it, hiding my distaste. If holding hands encouraged the pretense of gentlemanly behavior, I would let him touch my fingers.
A clean-shaven man with a commanding bearing strode over. He wore common worker’s clothes, but his belt held a pistol and gilded sword. Two men attended him with military precision. This was a senior officer.
He greeted me with a European bow. “Mademoiselle Darcy.” His French accent stressed the last syllable of Darcy.
“This is Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Wickham interposed in an annoyed tone.
The French officer’s eyes narrowed. “Bennet?” He knew the name, but I could not imagine how. He glared at Wickham, who slouched in grudging deference. This Frenchman was in command.
“You have secured Monsieur Darcy?” he asked sharply. “And the household staff?”
“We are still searching for Darcy,” Wickham said tightly.
There was an angry exclamation in French. “With fifty men, you lost a degenerate English noble?”
“His horse is stabled. We will have him soon.”
The French officer shook his head in disgust and spoke a blur of French syllables. I caught only Lambton, the town near Pemberley. If I was to continue meeting spies, I should practice my languages.
Wickham’s reply was as fast and indecipherable. It seemed everyone’s French was better than mine.
The officer stalked to where the chest rested on the gravel shore. The four men were now laboring to bring a second chest.
A cart arrived, carrying three young women dressed in white linen gowns, their hair elaborately styled.
Their slippers were fabulous ball attire, embroidered with golden thread and tassels.
As they walked to the chests, each gown dragged an arm’s length of elegant train across the rough stones and dirt.
The officer threw open the first chest. Even under the gray sky, it glittered. Gold coins. An unthinkable fortune.
Women in beautiful gowns. Gold. “They are attempting to bind draca,” I said.
“They are,” Wickham said. “And you must ensure they succeed.”
“What?”
“Even my sweet Lydia was impressed by your draca tricks, and I can attest that Lydia is not easily impressed. I think there is more to Elizabeth Bennet than raven hair and striking eyes. And if you want to survive this day, you must use those tricks to ensure that one of these women binds.”
“Even if I could, I would never assist a French woman in binding English draca.”
“If you don’t, Lydia achieves all she desires. That will go poorly for you. And for me as well.” He stiffened, looking over my shoulder. Steps were approaching on the stones. “Say nothing of this!” he whispered.
“What a laugh,” came Lydia’s voice behind me.
I turned to my sister. Lydia wore black, but not mourning dress. Her gown was elaborate and expensive, ornamented with sewn pearls and ivory beadwork. It was a dark counterpoint to the white gowns of the French women, and even more extravagant.
She had caked her face with white paint so thick that it cracked around her eyes and lips.
Her cheeks were rouged, her lips bloodred.
The effect was grotesque, like a French aristocrat of the last century or a poor-quality porcelain doll.
But even through those heavy cosmetics, her veins were dark as purple ink, spiderish around her eyes and crawling across her cheeks.
“Are you unwell, Lydia?” I said.
She gave an irritated smile. “I did not think to find you here. Are you chasing Mr. Darcy? Or… is it an affaire? Has perfect Lizzy at last loosened her skirts?”
Her coarseness silenced me. Finally, I said, “Why are you here?”
“I am preparing for my coronation.” She made a moue of exaggerated pity at Wickham. “Do not be sad, Wickie. You can be captain of my guard and visit me every day. I am sure the Empress’s guard has handsome uniforms.” Her mocking smile turned cross. “But now I must talk to Lizzy alone.”
Wickham gave a short, uncomfortable nod and walked off.
“He is jealous,” Lydia said.
“Jealous of whom?” I asked.
“Emperor Napoleon.” Lydia lifted her eyebrows flirtatiously, as though we were giggling about a handsome officer in the local regiment. Flecks of white paint fell from her forehead onto her black dress.
“That is insanity. You are married, and sixteen. And English! He is married, and the emperor of France. You have never even seen him.”
“I will have you know that I have spent hours with him. In France, surrounded by handsome aides-de-camp and snobby French noblemen. He is very commanding and proud, but old and a little dumpy. More than forty, I think. Poor man. He is so unhappy in his new marriage. They say he was sad to divorce Joséphine. He did it because she could not give him an heir. I think it most romantic that he is sad.”
“You find his love for his divorced wife romantic?”
She jabbed a finger at me. “You are being silly. It is not like I am in love with an old man. It is his rank, Lizzy. Think of it. Empress. And he is very rich. All that gold is nothing to him.” She waved a finger at the three chests, each heaped with gold.
“Imagine Mamma! She will fall over with shock. I shall not be able to breathe for laughing.”
I had called this insanity because it was ridiculous. But I watched Lydia giggle, imagining surprising our mother as Empress of France, and I said, “You are mad,” and I meant it.
“Clever Lizzy thinks I’m a foolish girl, but you are the simpleton. Use that wit Papa admired so much. If an Emperor will divorce the woman he loves to gain an heir, think what he will do for what I offer.”
“What do you offer?” I asked slowly.
“What he desires most. Victory over England.” Her grin was savage.
“I proved my power in his court, while all his fancy guards and nobleman watched. I killed a man in front of them. Oh, you should have seen their faces, Lizzy, when he named me l’enfant du lac, the Child of the Lake.
He sought me for a year. And when those stupid French women fail to bind, he will have no choice.
He said he would give me anything I want. And I want to be Empress.”
This had to be imagined. A fantasy.
The French officer approached and stopped several steps away.
“Oui?” inquired Lydia in her best French accent.
“Madame Wickham. We are ready.” His eyes were lowered. His lips were tight. He was frightened of my sister.
“You may proceed,” Lydia said grandly. He hurried off, and she raised her eyebrows at me. Little Lydia, wanting to impress her older sister.
I tried to make sense of this.
A French officer and at least fifty armed men had come to the middle of England, with what had to be a hundred thousand gold guineas. It must be marriage gold, so worth far more. Over two million pounds. An astronomical sum.
And that officer deferred to my youngest sister. That was why he recognized my name, Bennet. He must have met Lydia before she married.
Lydia was right. I should be impressed. Or terrified. What if all she said was true?
Three men joined the French women. The couples lined up, each by a chest of gold. Another man put on the trappings of a priest, although Catholic. He opened a bible and began reading in English with a heavy French accent.
Lydia watched the ceremony with contempt. Softly, she spoke to me. “Now, Lizzy, I must talk seriously. At Longbourn, you did… something nasty. It hurt my head, and it kept me from taking my drake. I want to know what you did.”
“I do not know,” I said. That was true. It had been instinct. Anger.
“If you cannot tell me, then you must do it. If one of those girls binds la Tarasque, Napoleon will choose her instead of me. He likes French girls.”
“What do you mean, la Tarasque?” That was the beast from the story of Saint Martha, which was centuries ago.
“The dragon of the lake.”
Before I could help myself, I laughed. “There are no dragons. La Tarasque was a wyvern. And there are no draca in Pemberley lake. Of any kind.”
“I know there are no dragons. But Napoleon is obsessed with the legend. And a wyvern would impress him. Even a firedrake, which is why it is very unfair I did not get the Longbourn drake. I would have taken it from dull Mr. Sallow once we had the manor.” Her light blue eyes, feverish and hot, met mine.
“Why do you say there are no draca in the lake?”
Could Lydia not sense draca the way I did? I had no idea what she was capable of. She had incredible power, but it seemed different from mine.
Regardless, I had no intention of giving her lessons. “Draca in the lake would be obvious. We would see them swimming around like ducks.”
“You are a bad liar,” she said. “Here is the thing, Lizzy. If one of those women binds, I shall have to kill everyone, then invent some story to explain it. Napoleon will be suspicious. The whole thing will be most tiresome.”
I could not have heard right. “That is a poor joke.”
Lydia wore a small reticule at the waist of her dress. She opened it and drew out a writhing worm the length of her palm. A worm with many legs. A foul crawler.
I recoiled, but her other hand grabbed my shoulder. “Do not run. There are hundreds around us. Under rocks. In the woods. You would not get twenty feet. They all do what I want.”
Gently—affectionately—she placed the crawler on the shoulder of her dress. It ran down her sleeve then along her bare forearm, rows of legs rising and falling. It stopped on the back of her hand, inches from my bare neck.
“I could make it sting you,” she said.
The tail flipped up and over its head. Two sharp points thrust out like curved needles, and an oily drop formed on each point. My nostrils filled with a vile odor. Sour orange and bitter almond.
“Stung in your neck, you would die in minutes,” she said. “Or in your breast, near your heart. That would be more painful, but still quick.”
“We are sisters.” I could not believe the monstrous things she was saying. I did not believe this was my sister.
She flipped her hand, catching the crawler so the tail and stingers protruded from her fingers.
She thrust out her tongue and dragged the needle-like stingers across it, leaving twin oily trails that discolored to steaming black.
Her tongue curled into her mouth, and her lips worked rapturously.
Her eyelids fluttered closed. Her shoulders shuddered.
“I do not wish to do it,” she whispered.
Her eyes opened. The pupils swelled, swallowing blue into hollow black.
“It is only if one of these women binds. So, sister, do your draca trick. Prevent them from binding. Because if one of those light-skirts binds a wyvern—or anything at all—I will take her draca, then kill her and everyone else.”